Chapter 2 - Stranger

—Because nothing messes up your internal nihilism like a girl who can’t even see your brooding face.

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There’s a saying that pain fades with time.

That’s a lie. Whoever said that probably never got punched in the ribs by a man built like a vending machine.

My side still ached from last night’s fight. Every breath came with a polite reminder from my cracked ribs: “Hey, in case you forgot, you're still human trash.”

Thanks, body. Appreciate it.

I’d finished training early. The gym stank of blood, mold, and protein powder. I skipped the cooldown because what was the point of pretending to care about my longevity?

I wasn’t walking home. I was limping in slow, determined denial.

That’s when I heard it again.

Same melody. Same soft clumsy rhythm like it was stitched together with threadbare memories and hope that refused to die.

Same alley.

I stopped.

There she was. Again.

Sitting cross-legged beside a rusted dumpster, a plastic keyboard on her lap. The keys were yellowed and chipped like old teeth. Her fingers moved slowly, brushing over each note with a weird mix of carelessness and love. She hummed softly under her breath—off-key, unbothered.

Still blind.

Still... oddly serene.

I leaned on the wall, pretending I wasn’t listening.

She didn’t look at me. Obviously.

But her fingers paused.

Then she spoke.

> “Just standing there? You a thief or just awkward?”

Wow.

Excuse me, random alley girl, but that was a little too on point.

I blinked. Not because I was surprised, but because she somehow saw straight through me without seeing at all. Impressive. Most people need three failed conversations and a ruined relationship to achieve that level of understanding.

I didn’t answer. Not because I was trying to be mysterious—but because I genuinely had no idea which one I was.

Thief? Not lately.

Awkward? Always.

Her fingers returned to the keys.

She kept playing like nothing happened.

> “You’re quiet,” she said. “Let me guess. The brooding type. Black jacket. Hair in your eyes. Eyes like they’ve seen the world and decided not to bother with it.”

...Okay, now it was getting personal.

She smiled. Not at me—at the thought of herself being right. It was a small, stupid, smug smile.

And I hated it.

Not because she was wrong.

But because she was exactly right.

So I did what any emotionally-stunted man in a hoodie would do: I reached into my pocket, pulled out a 500 yen coin, and tossed it in her cup.

Clink.

She tilted her head.

> “Huh. A tip from a man with no words. How poetic.”

I turned to leave.

> “Hey,” she said behind me.

“You coming back tomorrow, Quiet Shoes?”

I didn’t answer.

But my feet stopped for half a second longer than they should have before I disappeared into the night.

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